Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Iwill, just—ask me anything else,” Jamie said earnestly. His pleading eyes made Brinton’s heart jump into her throat.
She thumbed her recorder and exhaled. “Right, let’s talk about your father. But I need something that’s not out there. I wanna dig deep.”
“What do you wanna know,” he answered. His shoulders slumped as if anchored by an invisible weight.
She leaned back, summoning strength of her own. Committed to peeling back his layers. “When your dad was still performing, country music wasn’t exactly an inclusive space. Some would argue that it still isn’t. Is that something you’ve discussed with him?”
If she had a rare opportunity to mine Jamie’s depths, in a way Landmark never would, she had to take it. It was then her new story angle crystalized beneath the silver moonlight: who was the man behind the myth of Jamie Crawford Jr.?
He let out a pained sigh, but his expression remained open. Head tilted, a faint smile on his lips, he laughed. “You wait until we’re stuck in a boat to ask me that?”
She shrugged, smiling back. “I thought you liked my thoughtful questions?”
“I do. So, let’s talk about it.”
Brinton exhaled, bracing for this conversation to take a hard right turn, pun intended.
“Country music in the American South wouldn’t be what it is today without the influence and ingenuity of enslaved Black people,” she started.
“In fact, historians have traced the banjo—a staple in early country, bluegrass, and folk music—to origins in West and Central Africa before appearing in North America due to—”
“Slavery. Yes, I’m aware,” he interjected. Remorse blanketed his tone.
Was he genuine or trying to win her over because he was, in fact, being recorded?
“I think there’s an opportunity with artists of my generation and everybody who comes long after,” he continued. “A chance to correct these mistakes and level the playing field for a lot of people who’ve been shut out.”
She picked at a ragged cuticle on her thumb. She needed to be strategic without scaring him off.
“Right. Largely, Black country artists today are still fighting for financial parity with their white counterparts. Let alone for respect.”
Brinton had discovered this in her own research. It filled her with despair for the stories she hadn’t heard, and those no one ever would.
He nodded slowly. “You ever heard of Charlie Pride? He was one of the most influential country artists ever. He’s also remembered as the first Black country superstar. Charlie was a friend of my father’s. Meant a great deal to our family.”
“I researched him. And his contributions are undeniable. Same with Linda Martell, the first Black woman to release a country album. And Beyoncé—the first Black woman to have a number one country album on Billboard. You and I both know there are countless more deserving of recognition, but who are denied a seat at the table because they were born with the wrong skin color and last name.”
Brinton cleared her throat. “No offense.”
Jamie ran a hand through a soft-looking thatch of waves that had fallen into his eyes. “You’re absolutely right. I’m not going to argue with you, but—I guess—I’m still learning how to navigate this myself.”
“Are you talking about that Instagram photo?”
He nodded. “Case in point why my team controls my social media accounts.”
The previous summer, Cory posted a photo of him and Jamie in front of the Eiffel Tower and captioned it “N****s in Paris.”
This was fine for Cory, a Black man. But when Jamie, a white man, hearted it on Instagram, the flogging was swift. The post was only up for a few minutes. Jamie donated tens of thousands to various civil rights organizations and apologized publicly, but the damage had been done.
“I would have apologized forever if I could. It sickens me to this day that I hurt any of my fans and gave the impression that I’d use that word so carelessly. Or that I supported people who did. Those people don’t deserve to listen to my music.”
She now regretted thinking he delighted in ridiculing her when he gutted himself over hurting countless people he’d never met. He had a heart of gold—probably too rich for this world. He deserved to know that.
“I believe you,” she said. “And I think the people who love your music do too.”
His grateful smile plowed through the last few barriers she had erected.
“Thank you, Brinton.”
She nodded. “Since we’re on the topic, would you ever consider writing a song about your political beliefs?”
Jamie’s ring spun around his finger. This, she now understood, was his tell for when he was conflicted.
“My songs are about having a good time, not making political statements,” he offered.
Her brows drew together. She needed to tread carefully. So far, Jamie’s quotes were great, but she could go a little further with some luck and a teensy bit of tactful prodding.
“Well, you’re a songwriter. I’m curious: how do you decide what parts of your life you share and don’t?”
That easy comfort his body always carried went rigid. His eyes cut away from hers, like he was in the middle of an argument with himself about whether to say more or nothing at all.
“I don’t get too political. Not my place,” he said, finally.
“You don’t think you’re hiding behind that? It’s more socially acceptable than ever for artists to speak out for what they believe in.”
“Look, if you’re listening to my music, enjoy it for what it is. Why should it matter who I voted for?” he said, his tone sharper than she expected.
“Who did you vote for?” she snapped, then swiftly clamped a hand over her mouth.
She’d come in like a wrecking ball for a conversation that required surgical precision.
But her anxious mind never kept pace with her words.
It was one of several reasons why, at Landmark, she spoke only on an as-needed basis.
Eyes wide and lips parted in not-quite amusement, Jamie peered at her. He probably thought she’d set him up for a hot-mic gaffe for future exploitation. But she’d never do that to him—or anyone.
All too well, she knew the agony of having your self-worth sold for parts at public auction. She was fighting to salvage what was left.
“That wasn’t—I didn’t mean…” she stammered, clutching the sides of the boat.
“You’re good,” he said.
Somehow, his short, breathy laugh steadied her, despite the vessel’s gentle sway. He tilted his head back. The moon’s antique-white contoured his sharp collar bones like chiaroscuro. “We’re having—what do they call it? A frank conversation.”
When they both laughed, she simultaneously took respite in his kindness and envied how easily he doled it out. He seemed unafraid of being misinterpreted as weak. He lived so freely, while she was entombed in an Alcatraz of her own making.
Nonetheless, her shoulders melted from her ears and she exhaled. “Okay, tell me something else I should know.”
His knee bumped hers again, triggering a zap that hopscotched up each of her vertebrae. “That’s easy. The best party I ever threw was right here, on this lake. An eightieth birthday celebration for my Mamaw.”
“I’m sorry, your what?” Brinton screeched.
He smiled again. This time, a teasing one. “Mamaw. My grandmother. I must forgive you Yankees for such willful ignorance.”
“I was born in Virginia, if you must know,” she volleyed back, grateful for their newfound familiarity but certain her cheeks would scald to the touch. “My family moved to New York when I was fifteen.”
“Ah. I was wondering about your accent. Or, lack thereof.”
She winked back. “We can’t all be so charismatic.”
He barked out a laugh. How did even that sound pitch-perfect?
“Can I ask you a question now?”
“I guess you’ve earned one,” she said, smiling.
He leaned in, intrigue incandescent in his eyes. “What’s your country song?”
She pursed her lips, unsure if this was a trap. “I like Beyoncé’s country music.”
“Cowboy Carter is a masterpiece,” he nodded. “But respectfully, there’s a whole lot more to discover too.”
She scrunched her nose, mostly amused. But she didn’t want to spoil the goodwill passing between them. For the story’s sake, she reminded herself.
“I don’t know. It’s a lot of talking about shooting whiskey, having a jacked-up truck, and finding a good, God-fearing girl who worships the ground you walk on. And then drinking enough whiskey to forget her when she inevitably leaves you.”
“Fair—some of the themes can be…” His voice trailed off as he tried to pull the words from the thick air around them. His gold ring orbited his pinky at lightning speed.
“Sexist and misogynistic?” she offered.
His brow creased in mock offense. “I was gonna say old-fashioned. You know, a lot of stuff about gender roles and putting a woman’s worth in her looks, which I don’t agree with.”
Here he was again, a far cry from the honky-tonk lothario she had expected. That probably would have made for a better story. Yet, for reasons she wasn’t ready to unpack, this revelation was far more compelling.
“So enlighten me,” she said, instinctively leaning closer, luxuriating in his spicy-gourmand scent.
Smiling back at her, he looked as eager to submit to whatever was dragging them closer. Unless it was all in her head? Of course it was; famous people lived to be charming.
She pulled back.
“To me, country music is about telling the truth,” he said. “It’s about love, family, and maintaining faith in the future. And, for me, coming into my own as a man.”
A few quiet moments passed as she relaxed into the boat’s soothing rhythm. “‘That Don’t Impress Me Much’ by Shania Twain,’” she said, finally.
His eyes narrowed atop his smirk.
“My favorite country song. Sophomore year of high school, during study hall, my English teacher blasted it daily from her CD player.”
He looked impressed. His smile reached his eyes, which made the boat suddenly feel like it was levitating. “Shania’s a saint. She’s my godmom, if you ever wanna meet her.”
Brinton gripped both sides of the boat in awe. “Wait—so your dad’s a legend, along with your godmother?”
He bowed his head and chuckled. “Garth Brooks is my godfather, so yeah, I guess you could say I’m extra blessed.”
They laughed again, an unnamed comfort passing between them. It felt like a warm, well-worn cardigan.
Was that how it’d feel to be wrapped in his arms?
“What’s your country song?” she asked instead, determined not to submit to her ill-advised curiosity.
“‘The Long Road’ by my dad. It’s about making a home on the road while your family moves on. It’s so vulnerable, which is…unlike him.” He paused. “Do you like my music?”
He looked nervous. It was surprising because she didn’t expect a person so incontestably cool to care what she thought. After all, she was a grown woman who still ordered off the kids’ menu.
She gnawed the soft flesh inside her cheek, eager to make the right words appear. Like it or not, she wanted him to like her, certainly enough to make the rest of her visit enjoyable. “‘Table for One’…is catchy.”
He laughed, but the sound came out strained. “Oh, you mean that stellar chorus? ‘I can’t be tied down. ’Cause I need to go the distance. We’ve had our fun, but this table’s for one.’”
Brinton scrunched her brows. “I guess I’m confused. I mean, you wrote it.”
Was the song’s message more than a little douchey? Yes, but she’d leave that part out.
He forced an uneasy but authentic smile. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. My songs.” He blew out a breath, then shook his head. “Shit, I’m freaking out. But I need to say this.”
When he looked at her, she felt tingles all over.
“Brinton, I—”
The tingles turned into a sharp scrape. Then, there was a lingering hiss. Stiff, translucent wings crunched against her collarbone.
Brinton’s shriek pierced the night air. A cockroach had burrowed into her top’s neckline. Its spiny legs were caught in the fabric. Every hair on Brinton’s body stood at attention.
“Holy sh—get it off.” She screamed again.
“It’s all right—probably a water bug,” Jamie said, eyes wide. He tried to steady the boat, which now rocked as Brinton wildly flailed her arms. “Here, lemme—”
But she couldn’t hear him anymore. Because now she’d reached over the side of the boat and into the cool depths, baptizing herself for dear life. The boat careened.
“Oh, fuck!” was the last thing she said before her feet flipped toward the sky, and her body plunged backward into the water.